


Firewall

by entanglednow



Series: The Fourth Wall [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam has relationship issues, Dean disapproves of tentacles, and someone makes a big gesture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firewall

Sam falls asleep without meaning to.

One minute he's slumped over his own books on the bed while some crappy sci-fi movie plays in the background. Castiel and Dean arguing over whether aliens would ever, for any reason, make people have sex. The next thing he knows he's sitting in one of the smooth chairs in a very familiar motel room.

Lucifer is watching him from across the table, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

The sun's low through the window, leaving everything softer in its fading orange light.

"Hi," Sam says stupidly.

"Hello, Sam." Lucifer's expression gives nothing away.

Sam lays his hands on the table.

The chair creaks quietly underneath him.

"You've been avoiding me," Lucifer says simply. It sounds like more like a fact than an accusation. But his voice is flatter than usual, as if he's carefully beaten all the emotion out of it.

Sam clears his throat.

"Yeah - I mean no, I was a little - after last time." He stops talking because he's making a mess of it. And because he hasn't actually worked out what he really thinks about what happened last time yet. Or maybe won't ever.

"How's your leg?" Lucifer asks quietly.

Sam takes a breath at the change of subject, or maybe it's a reminder of why he did what he did. Sam's in no fit state to try and work out which.

It twitches under the table, the long ache from where the stitches were almost faded now.

"It's better, it's much better."

There's a long silence.

Someone has to mention it before Sam has a dream aneurysm for God's sake.

"I shouldn't have just disappeared, last time," he says all in one breath.

Lucifer's looking at him but Sam still has no idea what he's thinking. But then he makes a quiet noise, something low and strange.

"I forgive you for waking yourself, Sam. I suspect you surprised yourself as much as you surprised me."

Sam clears his throat, and absolutely _does not_ remember how easy it had been to kiss him.

"I'm sorry anyway."

Lucifer sighs.

"It seems I have indeed lost sight of my goals if I have you apologising to me," he says flatly.

For one horrible second Sam thinks it's a threat, but it seems more like genuine frustration. Like maybe Lucifer doesn't know what they're doing any more either.

Sam clears his throat, presses his fingers into the table and for all that it's not real it feels real enough. Just like everything else here. Everything that happens here. It all feels real.

"Dean reminded me that this is real life and not fanfic. That I can't expect to fix everything. That there isn't a way to just fix everything."

Lucifer's face briefly twitches into something deeply unhappy. Sam's aware that maybe he shouldn't have suggested that he might have tried kissing Lucifer as some sort of experiment in good vs evil politics. But then it's gone, and his expression is calm again, measured.

"Just because something is irrational doesn't make it wrong," he says quietly.

"Still I probably shouldn’t have," Sam waves a hand, trying to indicate what he did last time without actually saying it. Which either makes him look like a coward or an idiot.

"I've always appreciated the big gestures, Sam," Lucifer's expression is focused but there's a gentle nostalgia to the words. Something sad under the raised eyebrow and the way he's relaxed in his chair.

"You don't really get big world-saving gestures in real life though right. The big gestures only happen in fiction."

"Real life is made of big gestures," Lucifer says, and it sounds like chastisement.

Sam shakes his head.

"But not like this. I mean, I didn't have any ulterior motives, I didn’t even know I was going to -"

"Kiss me," Lucifer finishes and it's soft and slow, accusing but also strangely enticing. Those two words left out there on their own.

"Uh huh," Sam says stupidly.

"Perhaps you should have had ulterior motives," Lucifer offers, and there's a tightness there.

"I wouldn’t do that," Sam says simply. Then decides he should probably clarify. "I mean, not for that, not with you. Maybe we both have ulterior motives somewhere. But I don't want to play head games, I never wanted to play head games."

"You just wanted to see if you could lure me to your side," Lucifer says easily.

Sam sighs and thumps a hand on the table.

"God, maybe I just don't want there to be sides? Why the hell do there _have_ to be sides? I just wanted to not have to worry about being hollowed out for a while. I wanted to know why you wanted to destroy everything. Because y'know, fine, it may be shitty sometimes but it's mine and I kind of give a damn. I want -" Sam stops.

He decides to be honest, because why the hell not?

"Maybe I want to be the one who saves everyone for a change. The one who does something right, something good, instead of destroying the world and dooming everyone. Because, y'know, that's getting pretty damn old. But apparently that's just something I'm incapable of."

Lucifer's watching him with an expression Sam's only ever seen on one face. It's Castiel's 'why don't you understand' expression. Careful and intent and so impossibly deep. Like there's a whole world beneath that he could never comprehend.

Sam thinks maybe if he kissed him again he'd find out what it means.

Lucifer inhales, one quick noise, like Sam's caught him by surprise.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"Are you reading my mind?" he demands. Because that is so not on.

"Yes," Lucifer admits.

"Could you stop, it's hard to have an emotional breakdown when you can hear everything I'm thinking."

Lucifer pulls a face, then leans back in his chair, as if he's retreating from inside Sam's head. Which is strangely unsettling. But Sam lets out a shaky breath of relief.

"I mean six months ago you wanted to _wear_ me and that kind of remains my number one fear. The world is still pretty much perched on the edge of Armageddon. Waiting for you to decide what you want to do. My brother is in love with an angel, pretty much everything in creation is hunting us. And I can't -

"Sam, I've already told you -"

"I know." Sam cuts off the fiercely angry words and runs a hand over his face. "God, I know, but even if I wanted to believe you, even if I do believe you, I just _can't._ Because there'll always be that fear that this is all for me. Hell do you have any idea how long Ruby spent manipulating me for you, to get me to you," Sam can't say any more. He just can't, it falls apart in his throat.

Lucifer looks briefly furious, before he quickly and obviously forces it away.

"I have to concentrate on the world-saving, no matter what I want." Sam shakes his head, then kicks away from the table because he has to stand up, has to walk or he's going to go mad.

This is officially the most claustrophobic conversation he's ever had.

He goes to the window, wonders if it even opens before he shoves his hands in his pockets and stares outside.

The chair makes a noise and Sam knows that Lucifer has moved. He listens to his boots bring him to the window. Until he's close enough for Sam to hear the shift of fabric, to see the faint echo of his reflection above his own.

"What do you want, Sam?" Lucifer asks, quietly, but firmly. Sam gets the feeling it's something he wants -desperately wants - to demand, but won't make himself.

Sam pulls his hands out of his pockets and presses them into the window sill until his knuckles go white. Because he doesn't know, he just doesn't know what he wants any more. He doesn’t move, doesn't react to the warmth behind him, where the devil hovers behind him in a way he manages to find just a little ironic.

There's the faintest touch on his shoulder, as if Lucifer is testing the gesture. But maybe he's not quite sure whether it's right.

He still touches him like he's important, or like he's breakable. In a way that sometimes makes Sam want to push back and prove that he's not. And he's really glad Lucifer isn't in his head any more.

It's a rocky beach outside today, one that Sam's fairly sure belongs somewhere the other side of the world.

The hand flattens, it's nothing like the first time Lucifer laid a hand on his shoulder. That was threat in the form of quiet reassurance, because Lucifer was certain his future was inevitable.

This is strangely new, awkward, but when Sam doesn't move, when he doesn't shrug him off, Lucifer drifts closer. Close enough that his shirt brushes Sam's back. Breath warm against the curve of his ear and the side of his neck.

Sam's own inhale gets tangled up somewhere in his throat.

But he doesn’t move away and Lucifer takes that as permission.

He leans into him, fingers pressing into Sam's shoulder, until he's so close to the skin that Sam can feel the rough edge of Lucifer's jaw. Like all the words in all the languages are less than this. All dropped at Sam's feet in favour of sliding his mouth just there. Warm and damp where the devil breathes wordless want into his skin.

"Sam."

Sam swallows and tenses, because he can't, he doesn't - this isn't what he wants.

When the hell did they become this?

He shakes his head and pulls away, breath fogging the glass of the window. He resists the urge to let his head drop against the cold glass.

"I can't, God, we don't exactly have an equal opportunity thing going on here. I can't - I can't do this again. I don't know what you want from me, I don't have anything to go on but your word and blind faith. I can't do this, I don't even know if I want -"

Sam stops and laughs out a breath.

"You've pretty much admitted that you're evil for God's sake."

Lucifer takes a breath and stops touching him, moves away, boots on the carpet.

Sam stares at the sea.

It's quiet for a very long time.

He turns around and finds the room completely empty.

  
~~~~

  
"You're an idiot," Dean says flatly.

Sam is expecting something, but not that.

He throws his hands up.

"I thought you'd be _happy_ , I told him that I had to concentrate on saving the world. That I couldn’t feel like I was being manipulated."

Dean pulls a face of irritated disbelief.

"I thought you were smarter than that, Sam."

Sam grits his teeth because he's just not getting this. He does the right thing for once and he _still_ gets the disappointed bitchfaces, the world _doesn't_ make sense.

He moves until he's standing right in front of the couch, glaring down at his brother.

"What the hell, Dean, how exactly did I screw up this time?"

"Seriously, you had the 'it's not you it's me' and 'I just want to be friends' conversation with Lucifer, what the hell did you expect."

Sam looks to Castiel for some sort of support. But Castiel seems to agree with Dean's statement if his concerned tilty head is anything to go by. Hell, he's looking at them both like he's planning to remember this the next time Dean accuses him of doing something that he considers angel!stupid.

Jesus, is no one on his side here?

"Dude, did you _want_ me to -" Sam's not sure he can actually finish that. He forces himself to give it some sort of ending. " - lead Lucifer on."

Dean sighs where he's sprawled over the couch and looks at him like he's an idiot.

"You could have tried something a little subtler than what you went for don't you think?" Dean huffs out a breath. "If nothing else you could have lured him into spilling all his secret plans for world domination before you dumped him."

"I did not -" Sam grits his teeth and exhales roughly to try and get a little of his calm back.

"Dude, if your little bitch fit leads to rains of fire, plagues of locusts and cows turning inside out I'm not going to be happy." Dean grunts something irritated. "I'll bet even Bobby couldn’t research your ass out of this one."

Sam points a furious finger at him.

"Under no circumstances are you to tell Bobby _anything_ about this."

  
~~~~

  
Dean leaves it alone, and Sam doesn’t know whether that makes it better or worse.

He gets nothing but frowny half looks from Dean and concerned eyeballing from Castiel for a week.

No one says anything.

At least until Dean corners him one morning in the bathroom like he's suddenly decided he has to provide brotherly support and/or interference or he'll explode.

"So, are you going to tell me what's happening with Lucifer?" Dean's all concern and damp hair in the doorway.

Sam spits toothpaste into the sink.

"There's nothing to tell," he says flatly.

"You mean he's pissed at you?" Dean asks carefully

"I mean no Lucifer," Sam says in a firmer and unnecessarily loud tone of voice. "He doesn't show up any more, I haven't seen him for more than a week."

And the apocalypse is still glaringly absent.

Dean frowns harder above Sam's reflection in the mirror, like he isn't sure whether he's allowed to have an opinion on that. He doesn’t even make a joke. As if he thinks maybe this is _serious._

He looks like he wants to ask if Sam's ok.

 _Jesus_

Sam continues to brush his teeth, loudly.

When he looks up again Dean's gone.

He doesn't have any feelings for Lucifer.

He _doesn't._

One angry misplaced elbow and everything ends up in the sink.

"Goddamn it!"

  
~~~~

  
Dean's going to spend the next week cleaning the car.

Cleaning it, disinfecting it and making sure not a trace of horrible green-white slime remains anywhere near her beautiful seats or any of her shiny and exquisite parts.

Castiel is very carefully not getting any slime anywhere in the back. Sam’s trying his damnedest to do the same in the passenger seat but it's pretty much dripping off of every inch of his huge gigantor frame.

Including his stupid hair.

"The universe has a really fucked up sense of humour," Dean complains when they come to a stop outside the motel.

The car door swings open and slime dribbles from the frame like it was just hiding in wait there.

He makes a furious noise.

Sam climbs out after him, carefully, trying not to smear anything anywhere and if nothing else Dean is going to be grateful for that.

"I'm never going back there," Sam says quietly, once he's free to drip in the motel parking lot.

"Well, then it's a good job there are no longer tentacle monsters menacing the townsfolk," Dean bites out.

"I don't think they were technically tentacle monsters Dean," Sam protests.

"Tell them and their tentacles that, and - " Dean turns and points a furious finger at him. "No, y'know what, I've changed my mind. If I find any of those things in my car I'm going to go back and kill them all over again."

He pushes the door shut.

Slime jumps out in an arc and sticks to the back of his hand and he makes a horrified noise

"For all we know they could just be some sort of deformed squid," Sam offers, while he watches Dean try and shake the disgusting trail of goo free.

"Cas was pretty sure about the _'tentacle hell monster'_ thing."

Castiel chooses to angel-mojo his way out of the back, rather than risk leaving tentacle hell monster slime everywhere.

Dean pulls a face and leans over, drags a severed tentacle off the back of Sam's jacket, suckers coming free with tiny and horrible little _'thock, thock, thock'_ sounds.

Sam sucks a horrified breath and tries to look at his own back to see if there are any more there.

"The universe...laughing its ass off," Dean says tightly, and flings the limp appendage into the bushes.

He really, really hopes its not going to grow into a new one, but he's damned if he's going over there and fishing it out.

Sam shudders.

"Ok, yeah, I do kind of feel like I narrowly escaped ending up in a bad fanfic," he admits quietly.

Castiel makes a helpful noise.

"I do not believe the creatures have a history of sexually violating -"

Dean leans over and wraps a tacky hand over Castiel's mouth.

"No, we are not going there. We're going to shower and we're going to repress the tentacle monster."

Castiel raises a hand and very gently tugs Dean's fingers away.

"I was simply pointing out that the assumption was incorrect."

"Yeah, well let me tell you it would be _exactly_ Winchester luck to come across the one squid that wanted to get a sneaky grope in."

"You do seem to violate the laws of probability on a daily basis," Castiel offers, in that sympathetic tone of voice. Because, yeah, luck's a fickle bitch, She doesn’t care much if she hits you with the good or the bad.

"And I'm aware that sometimes that's a double-edged sword," Deans points out, against the unfairly clean skin of Castiel's cheek. The dodging powers of angels beat that of humans every time.

Dean's fairly sure that Castiel's only wearing slime because he untangled Dean from one of the aggressive big ones.

"I'm sorry dude, but if a tentacle monster is enthusiastically trying to drag you somewhere, whether it wants to eat you or do unnatural tentacle-y things to you, that's still counting as a bad day in my book."

"Enough tentacle monsters," Sam complains. Dean makes an irritated noise but gives in. Because Sam's been a bitch since Lucifer did the dream-stalking equivalent of not calling when Sam said he just wanted to be friends, and he's so not getting into that with him again.

He tosses Sam his bag out of the trunk, now stickier than it was before they came out.

"Don't pretend you don't -" Dean stops talking.

Because their motel room door is ajar.

Dean's gun is out and up in seconds, steady even in his slimy hand.

"I cannot sense anyone," Castiel says quietly more as a statement than a reassurance.

"But someone's been here," Dean says, voice tight.

He kicks out with a boot and the motel door swings inwards and thuds against the wall.

The first sweep of the room tells him Cas is right, there's no one here.

The second tells him that there's some _thing_ here.

There's something on the table, left among their things. A long line of metal that looks like some sort of rod, shaped and bent at one end in complicated curves and lines.

It looks like a brand.

"What the hell is that?" Dean takes a step, two, but Castiel reaches it before him. He looks at it for a long second, as if measuring whether it's a threat, then he lifts it off the table.

"Cas?"

The angel turns it in his hand.

"It's a collection of sigils and wards, some of them incredibly old, perhaps older even than I."

"What does it do?" Dean insists, because they can have a history lesson later.

Castiel frowns, touching it carefully, slowly.

"It's impossibly complex, the configurations are both intricate and brutal. This instrument exists in more than one plane and there are parts of it which are folded within -" he stops.

"Cas?" Dean prompts because he doesn't freakin' like it when the angel goes silent like that.

Castiel looks up, his expression is more than a little stunned.

"If I had to make a guess as to its purpose I would say it is designed to permanently seal a living person against the possibility of being used as a host. I have never heard of such a thing existing."

Sam has gone very still.

Dean's gun very slowly comes down.

"So, if someone branded themselves with that?" he gestures at the thing Castiel is holding.

"They could never be a vessel," Castiel says simply. "For angel, or demon, or anything in-between."

Sam's bag hits the floor.


End file.
